When It Rains in America
by Ruby Fire Wolfson
Summary: Mamimi goes to America in search of Naoto's brother and hopes to make money as a photographer. What she finds is the fantastic world of California and broken dreams which are replaced by new adventures . . . (Chapter 3 added: Still unfinished)
1. America the Beautiful

When It Rains in America  
  
By Ruby Fire  
  
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America was the place of dreams, right? It was full of wide open spaces and amber fields and purple mountains majesty, right? Big parking lots and big cars and fashion designers and really awful movies and rainbows and big people and landmarks both man-made and natural.  
  
Mamimi looked over her shoulder at the plain-looking talent agency building. It seemed like a logical place to start. But the receptionist looked disapprovingly at her when she admitted she didn't have a mailing address or even a place to stay.  
  
The moment that fat, stupid American saw her pictures, he showed her the door. He glowered at her when she handed him her drugstore-developed pictures. He said she should have a proper portfolio, whatever what was, with glossy photos and not something done by a disposable camera.  
  
He looked really angry when she said that it was her own camera. Just because it was drop-off film didn't mean it wasn't good.  
  
Now she was in the road and glaring at the temporary office building. The kind of building that has the stapled in thin carpeting with boxes and plastic wrapping strewed about the rooms as things are constantly being packed or unpacked with no middle between the two. Coming or going, no staying.  
  
Mamimi thought that was pretty much all America was going to be. People were always just arriving or immediately leaving. For someone who had stayed her entire life in a town that was trapped in its own little world, she wasn't used to either. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not.  
  
She just decided to forget about this temporary parasite of a talent agency. There were a million other places to give her beautiful pictures to.  
  
She walked down the street and surveyed the scene. Maybe she would find something to take a picture of since she had only tried to line up potential shots so far. Yeah, her first set of pictures in America. In California. In a beautiful city full of bizarre people and bright places and strange, new things to photograph. Perfect.  
  
She felt like the camera around her neck was like some sort of badge. As soon as she had stepped off the boat, people were trying to get in her line of vision, especially once she had lined up a shot. It annoyed her after awhile but it provided some interesting material.  
  
Mamimi had always envisioned America to be just one big sweeping plain of wheat with mountains to the far north in the foreign world of Canada. She knew it had fruited fields and shinning seas. She knew these things because her English class had to learn that America the Beautiful song. The times she bothered to pay attention, she thought the tune was irritating. She thought the lyrics had described a perfect world.  
  
She wondered why the lyrics had forgotten about the transvestite dancers in head-to-toe sequins and crack dealers.  
  
She had a bad run-in with a couple of prostitutes that had make-up on so thick that you wondered if they were kabuki actors. They were screaming at her to stop attracting people to her, as if she were some kind of threat to the oldest profession, until they saw her camera. Then they sweetly asked her to take some pictures of them. When she tried to tell them no, they had pushed her away and dug their fake painted nails into her skin until she fled to the safety of the other side of the street.  
  
It was amazing how vain some people were. Despite that, Mamimi liked the sense of power that this simple little camera brought her. People smiled when she had that thing in her hands. People stepped around, instead of pushing her once they saw that black machine hanging around her neck.  
  
She walked on street curb, arms stretched out like she was a high-wire walker. This place was a circus anyway.  
  
She was just now starting to wonder where she was going to stay. She'd had a plan: get on a boat, step off boat, get some more money, get an apartment, and find her boyfriend. She wasn't sure if she would move into his place, wherever that was, or he'd move in with her. She hoped that it would be his because she wasn't going to able to afford anything very fancy or big.  
  
But money was something that she didn't have a whole lot of in the first place. She had brought most of the things she needed, like a few clothes and film and a toothbrush in her backpack, but a big part of her savings went into buying a boat ticket and food was something you always needed a lot of money for.  
  
As for a place to live. . . .  
  
She smiled up at the blue sky. Ok, it had a few faint yellow spots in some places but she didn't care. It was quite warm this far South, especially along the oceans. There were a million benches to sleep on and a hundred bridges to hide under when it rain. By the time winter came, she'd be rich and famous living with her boyfriend.  
  
She laughed to herself and closed her eyes and spun around. Through her eyeslids, she saw red light filtering through. It alternated with darkness as she spun like a top on the edge of a curb.  
  
Yes, she'd live with her boyfriend. He'd forget about whatever girl he found. He just needed a substitute, and that girl would be gone the second Mamimi appeared in his life. Substitutes were needed sometimes, just like she had needed Naoto once her angel had left. Naoto was a sweet kid but he was just much like his brother, which was his real appeal.  
  
But she'd move in with her baseball playing god and they'd be rich and comfortable with a cozy apartment with a TV and a million video games to play and beautiful silk sheets and expensive Christmas presents for each other every year.  
  
She'd go and attend all his games and take pictures, just like she did back home. Newspapers and magazines and fans would demand pictures of her baseball playing god in action.  
  
America was going to be a perfect world. Here they grew the biggest and juiciest watermelons and the plumpest pumpkins. She heard that one night a year kids went to houses begging for candy. She and her personal athlete god would dress up and go too. America was the place of dreams. A million and a thousand things to photograph and never run out of material. A million angles and angels and a million songs and a thousand things to eat and a million places to step in stride with her personal angel, her god of a baseball player.  
  
A car whisked by and honked. She jumped at the unexpected sound and the wind sent her tumbling off the curb. Somewhere nearby, a few boys laughed and said something she didn't understand.  
  
Mamimi scowled at them. She was good at English but even without hearing them clearly, she knew what they wanted to see. She knew they were glad to get a clear view of her on her hand and knees with her shirt open. She was glad she traded in her dumb uniform for jeans.  
  
She struggled to her feet, like a fallen tight-rope walker cautiously swings himself back on his wire. She pulled on her blue sweatshirt and memories flooded into her mind's eyes, like God's storm had flooded the land around Moses' boat. The shirt smelt of Naoto. It smelt of the green grass from under the bridge where they had made out. It smelt like his father's bakery. It smelt of machine oil from Canti. These were the smells of home.  
  
There, around her stomach on along her esophagus, were the faint contractions as her heart gave birth to homesickness.  
  
The sun went dark and thunder rolled.  
  
Mamimi looked up at the sky. A couple drops of water landed on her cheek. People were already scurrying for someplace dry, to wait out this sudden storm.  
  
The heavens split and a waterfall of Heaven poured onto the streets. It drove Mamimi from the curb to a bridge down the road. Even though the bridge didn't block the wind and the cars driving above roared like dragons, it was at least better than in the open.  
  
Mamimi felt water dripping down her face and it wasn't raindrops.  
  
She sang, "Oh, beautiful, for spacious skies . . ." 


	2. When Zero Meets Fifteen

When It Rains in America: When Zero Meets Fifteen By Ruby Fire  
  
Notes: The chapter title is a Five Iron Frenzy song which is about what a guy sees when he gets on the bus and he wonders why he would bother to save the save the world with 13 cents and a broken pen. And yes, I'm aware that the band is breaking up. And lyrics are used without permission.  
  
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She felt stiff all over when she woke up. The rocks left nasty red marks on her sides and back. Her clothes were damp and her hair was wet enough to cling to her face and neck in tendrils. Her breath formed the tiniest, most perfect clouds.  
  
She opened her eyes and stared at the dark underside of the bridge. She watched as water dropped off the bridge in thin sheets when cars roared overhead.  
  
She turned her head and saw that the sky was a startling shade of blue. Robin egg blue, she though. The soft blue that parent's paint a baby's room.  
  
She tried to pull herself to her feet but her joints weren't behaving as they should have. She stumbled and slowly bent her knees and winced at the pins and needles that seemed to be jammed in the cartilage. Ouch. Man, that sucked.  
  
And what's when it hit her.  
  
That sound wave. The mix of lead and bass guitars and a trombone and trumpet accented with a heavy handed percussionist blasted her. It made her eardrums vibrate and her brain rattled and her heart beat wildly as it tried to keep in time with the loud bass.  
  
" . . .have to ride the bus again, at ten-o-clock on Tuesday night, with thirteen cents and a broken pen . . ."  
  
The voice had boomed over with a bit of that scratchiness when you try to scream what you sing.  
  
Mamimi leapt to her feet and forgot about the tingles of needles and pins in her knees and elbows and ran form the bridge, thinking it was going to fall down on her while it rattled from this mighty rock band of God.  
  
". . . could have walked another block, to get away from the scene . . ."  
  
She couldn't understand what was happening. Had the gods come down from the highest stars or was the world falling apart? She couldn't understand the worlds as they ran together and echoed with the kind of feedback you get form playing too loud.  
  
". . . gave my thirteen cents, to the man who peed his pants . . ."  
  
The words seemed to slow for Mamimi. Her mind recognized every few words of English. The rest she could fill in. She understood.  
  
Someone was singing. That's all it was. No Apocalypse. No Ragnorak or raging volcanoes. Just a concert that had happened to spring up in the curve of the ground near the foundations of the bridge.  
  
She stumbled past the sheet of dirty water and into the shoving and raging crowd.  
  
The echoes of the music were no longer as painful when she stepped into the open. In fact, she felt as if all the noise was absorbed by all these people. They sucked up every big light and energy and sound to keep it all to themselves and never share with those who stood outside the writhing crowd or with the cars that passed over the bridge.  
  
She felt tired just watching them.  
  
She had to join.  
  
The tons of bodies pushed her and tried to toss her right back out of their private bubble of energy but she crawled her way in and jumped with the other rockers and banged her head and tried to sing along even though she didn't know the words. No one cared because the singer's words were hardly decipherable let alone anyone the crowd.  
  
Among the hundreds of people, she lost track of the time. She felt her clothes cling to her body uncomfortably. Sweat dribbled down her face and made her hair stick to her face and neck.  
  
". . . if I had a nickel for every time I tried to classify . . ."  
  
The songs were melting together, just simply shifting from key to key with various style changes and some talking in between. Mamimi didn't understand what anyone was saying but she loved it.  
  
The crowd roared and bucked and the world swirled around Mamimi. Her fingers somehow clumsily found their way to the precious camera around her neck. She lifted it up to one eye and began spinning. Her finger tapped the button what felt like a thousand times.  
  
In her mind, these pictures would feature the bodies of the hundred dancers. But with their fast moments and the slowness of light, these people would be streaked and twisted of rainbow lights.  
  
". . . pre-ex-girlfriend . . . That girl's just to fine for me . . ."  
  
But the crowd of rockers had formed some kind of wave. So many people were bigger than her. The wave kept pushing higher and higher over her and she saw the ground coming closer and closer and people's feet and ankles were too close to her face. She curled up in a protective ball as the crowd pushed her under them. She curled her body around her camera and pulled her hands over her head but feet and knees were hurting her no matter how small she made herself become.  
  
She felt someone fall down next to her. She grabbed onto them but the person shoved her away in the fight for survival from under the wave of dancers.  
  
She screamed and clawed at the sneakers and combat boots and pulled off the sandals of someone. She pulled at stockings and camouflage fatigues but the people were still jumping and dancing to this relentless beat.  
  
"Gang way!" someone shouted in a loud screaming voice that nearly lost all the words simply to get the sound across.  
  
Suddenly, people around her began to step away and there were shrieks of annoyance and surprised. She heard the revving of a motorcycle. People shuffled away as they parted before this biker like the Red Sea before Moses.  
  
She tried to struggle to her feet as she heard the engine coming closer and it dawned on her that it was heading right at her.  
  
"Don't move!" the person screamed again.  
  
As if she could. She felt like every bit of skin was either scraped raw or deeply bruised. She tried to push herself up but her arm didn't seem to want to work but just ache.  
  
The motorcycle screeched to a stop somewhere near her. Dust was kicked up by the tires and she ducked her head down, pink hair falling across her face, to keep it from blowing in her eyes.  
  
"Shh, keep still, kid," a man whispered comfortingly in Japanese. "I'm just going to make sure you're all right."  
  
Mamimi gingerly lifted her head. Her hair obscured her vision as it caught in tangles around her nose and her eyelashes but she could still see this stranger.  
  
Even if he was crouched over her, Mamimi could see he was a tall man. Lanky, too. Everything else about was ordinary, one-descript. Except for his clothes. Torn pants, a dirty vest, and that ridiculous, stupid-looking eye-patch. Mamimi wanted to reach up and pull it off to see if he really had lost an eye.  
  
The pirate-man asked, "Can you sit up?"  
  
"I'm not sure."  
  
"Here," he said and slid his arms under her back and knees and lifted her up. For such a thin man, he was pretty strong.  
  
Wiry is the word, thought Mamimi.  
  
The man gingerly set her down in a half-sitting position on the back half of his bike  
  
She looked around as the bike started to move slowly and smoothly. She saw that there were other people laying hurt and were being carried out on stretchers of the barely distracted crowd. Some were carried by ambulance workers, but more were carried by other members of the crowd.  
  
The bike stopped in front of a near by ambulance. The workers were wrestling with the gurney and were trying to shove someone in.  
  
"Hey," called out the man. "I found a girl that got trampled. Where do I take her?"  
  
A harassed looking worked looked up from the bruised face on the gurney. "Take her to the ER. Have her get checked. Go two blocks, turn right and go straight. You'll see it." And with that, the doors of the ambulance swung shut and the engine started up.  
  
The pirate man watched the ambulance pull away. "Well, kid, do you think you need a trip to the doctor's?"  
  
Mamimi looked down at the ground. "I don't have much money."  
  
"If you broke a rib, it might cost more later on to get that fixed."  
  
"I'm fine," she said quietly.  
  
The man didn't say anything for a while. Eventually, he nodded. "All right, if you say so. But to make sure you're ok, how about we just cruise around and see how you feel in an hour or so?"  
  
Mamimi looked up and stared him in the eye. She heard all the warnings her drunken mother said. Don't go off with strange men. America has the highest number of serial killers out of the entire world. Danger, Will Robinson, danger!  
  
"Don't give me that look," he laughed. "I'm not hitting on you. I have no interest in under-aged girls. How about we go to a café just down the road? I heard of this singer who is pretty good is singing down there. I'll get a couple cups of coffee and we can sit and listen and appreciate the music."  
  
She didn't say anything.  
  
"And there's no dancing."  
  
She bit her lip as her mind whirled while she made her decision.  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Good," he said. He turned around and restarted his motorcycle.  
  
"Wait!" Mamimi cried.  
  
"What?"  
  
She slid off the seat and walked toward the dancing crowd but this time she did not step inside. She wasn't going to risk that but also because she didn't need pictures from the inside of the crowd. She faced the man who saved her who was in front of some ambulances with their red and blue lights facing. He was twisting around to see what she was doing.  
  
Click!  
  
"There," she said simply as she place dher camera back around her neck. "I'm done."  
  
"Fine. Let's go."  
  
She struggled up onto the bike which was pretty high up. When the bike pulled forward, much faster this time, she wrapped her arms around his waist to keep from slipping off the back.  
  
"Never ridden one before?" he called back over the noise of the engine.  
  
"I have. I knew a girl who drove one all the time. She was a crazy driver," Mamimi smiled as she thought of how she had to clutch onto Haruko's uniform as the older woman swerved and accelerate only to break suddenly which always threatened to send them flying over the handlebars.  
  
"I'm nor going very fast."  
  
"Oh, sorry."  
  
"Nah, don't worry. I'm not used to riding bitch either."  
  
She thought for a minute and asked, "What did you just call me?"  
  
"Oh, riding bitch means you ride the back of a motorcycle. It's not you, it's just a term."  
  
The motorcycle ducked between the huge and clunky vans and SUVs and the sleek and tiny sports cars that were hardly any bigger than the motorcycle.  
  
Mamimi liked the feeling of the sulfur breeze that played with her hair which went flying in every direction. She liked the sound of the tires squealing as people braked quickly when they swung in front of the cars. She liked the smell of the burnt rubber as others tried to get around them only to be left behind when the pirate man accelerated just to piss them off. On the sharp turns, she liked leaning toward the pavement so close that she could the wind pass over the gravel in the road.  
  
Yeah, this was real freedom. 


	3. Buzzing

When it Rains in America Chapter 3: Buzzing  
  
Notes: Appearance and title from Howie Day, the coolest musician ever. He records himself on stage for his own backup vocals and writes cool songs and makes live techno remixes. Australian, beautiful voice, kick ass songs. Why isn't this guy rich yet?  
  
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She was, at first, wary of the drink that the pirate man had set down in front of her.  
  
"What's this?"  
  
"Coffee."  
  
"I don't like coffee."  
  
"You'll like this. I don't know anyone under the age of 20 that doesn't like this stuff."  
  
Mamimi took the cup and gingerly sniffed. "Smells like coffee. I don't like coffee."  
  
"Try it. I bought you it and it's not exactly cheap."  
  
She gently took a tiny, tiny sip. With that, Mamimi discovered that she really loved coffeehouse drinks.  
  
"Good?"  
  
"Hmm, raspberry."  
  
"Doesn't taste like coffee, does it?" The pirate smiled.  
  
Mamimi liked his smile right away. He had a real big smile and he never actually grinned. When he looked happy about something, most of his teeth showed. With such a long and skinny face, it looked like he was smiling from ear to ear.  
  
She sipped at the still hot coffee and closed her eyes letting the flavor roll around over her tongue and teeth before she swallowed it. Perfection. It warmed her. Her sore body felt better already from the sweet taste and the caffeine in her blood system.  
  
The drink was so hot that she felt the steam blowing out of her mouth. She felt like a big dragon that had had its daily dose of lava to keep its magical, mystical fire-breathing up to snuff. Was the back of her throat glowing melted metal red? Was the steamy breath she felt coming through her nose really smoke and snoot?  
  
She took another sip of the super sweet coffee and contently let her questions drift away.  
  
The pirate man had taken her to a little place he called a coffeehouse. She didn't know what it really was but they obviously sold coffee, but had lots of weird art on the wall that featured naked women and cubes. Also, the place had a stage with unbalanced wooden chairs surrounding it. All these chairs were unbalanced where if she shifted her weight from one side to another the chair would rock a little bit.  
  
She wondered if someone methodically filed down two of four legs of each chair because she thought every single one clacked and rocked when someone sat down in it. She used to wonder about that at school too, when she'd bothered to show up, because all the desks had uneven legs too. Did the janitors sneak in at night and do it to annoy teachers and children for the day?  
  
The stage had a lot of strange equipment and wires like snakes on it. Mamimi wondered if electrical shocks were just an evolved version of a snake bite.  
  
"What is your name?" asked the pirate man.  
  
"Mamimi." She watched a few people begin to seat themselves in front of the stage. "I got just got here a couple days ago."  
  
"That explains why you don't have anything with you."  
  
Mamimi reached down at her side but her body suddenly tensed up for a moment. "Oh no. . ."  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"My backpack. I left it at the bridge. I used it for a pillow and forgot about it."  
  
The pirate man shrugged, despite the fact she had her entire livelihood stored in that bag. "If you go back and get it, it won't be there. It'll already be stolen."  
  
"But I thought that didn't-"  
  
"Didn't think it happened in America? Welcome to California. It's only a fraction of the real world."  
  
"I suppose I'll just have to get a new pillow."  
  
She wasn't too worried about being stranded with only her clothes, a camera, and some film and pictures in her pockets. It shouldn't take long to find her boyfriend. A boy with the powers of Achilles with a bat should be easy to find. Tasuku would be as radiate and glowing like an ethereal being descending from the skies, swinging his bat like an avenging Fury swinging her sword.  
  
Money would never be a problem for them. She would be making money the second a smart agency saw her beautiful pictures. Either way, she'd be so content with him that even if they lived in a cardboard box, she'd be as thrilled as any princess in the richest, biggest castle.  
  
A singer was up on the stage now. A lot of cat-calls and wolf-whistles followed.  
  
"I like this guy. He just put out an album that wasn't as good as his live stuff but for a boy who sold his soul to Sony Music, I'd say he's still a fine musician."  
  
The pirate man pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and snapped open a kerosene lighter, getting the lid to flip open and start the flame at the same time. It was a trick Mamimi never could master no matter how many times she tried to flick it open or squeeze the lighter until the top snapped open. A trick done a million times in movies, a simple trick that few people could ever do.  
  
"And he doesn't curse in his records. I hate that," the pirate man continued.  
  
"What is your name?" Mamimi asked.  
  
He took a deep breath on the cigarette and didn't answer.  
  
"Tell me your name."  
  
No answer.  
  
The singer was strumming his guitar. What type was it? Oh, yeah, an acoustic guitar. It wasn't the type that Haruko or Naoto had. It didn't have the flashy, glittering colors that the guitars that had saved the world had. This guy just had a plain, wooden one.  
  
". . . Buzzing and I'm flying, everyone's trying too hard . . . "  
  
"Did you hear me, pirate man?"  
  
"Call me pirate man. I don't care." He looked and sounded agitated and his eyes didn't meet Mamimi's. "What's a name than what you are just called? It's none of your business."  
  
"If it doesn't matter, why does it matter if I know?"  
  
"It matters to me."  
  
Mamimi suddenly felt a terror run through her. The adrenaline and worry had bypassed the caffeine or maybe the caffeine had aggravated it. The realization said that if this man left, she would be totally alone until she could Tasuku, and she had no idea how to get to any baseball stadium or even which one would be the right one to find her boyfriend.  
  
"I am Samejima Mamimi."  
  
". . . Step outside, it's colder than hell . . ."  
  
The pirate shrugged, trying to look disinterested by focusing all his attention on the singer.  
  
". . . But I'll make sure you're terrified . . ."  
  
Mamimi recalled all the ideas in stories about how telling someone your name was like giving power over you to someone else. Maybe it was symbolic or something like for sharing your heart or love or trust or friendship or memories or experiences (which could be the same as memories) or similarities in personality or similarities in life or just conversation.  
  
Or maybe he was just a leprechaun.  
  
"Are you a leprechaun?"  
  
The pirate whipped around her. "Where did that come from?"  
  
"If a leprechaun gives out his name then someone can get a wish from him and a pot of gold. Or a cereal. I don't remember." She wasn't too worried about that detail though because she felt like she could really go for some cereal, which was something she didn't get to eat very often for breakfast unless she was over at the Nadaba house.  
  
". . . www-dot-smashed-in-the morning-dot-com . . ."  
  
"I'm not a leprechaun."  
  
". . .Stiff drunk revolutionary . . . "  
  
The pirate man strangely dug the cigarette into the palm of his hand where it hissed. Or the flesh must have hissed because fire does that.  
  
There was the faint smell of burnt flesh and Mamimi suddenly could vividly recall the smell of minor burns on school children as they fled around and the vivid smell of burning hair, tinged with smoke and the sadly pleasant smell of burnt wood and there was the sound of cries and the building collapsing and sparks flying and a boy, no an angel, saying, "Are you ok? Take my hand!"  
  
The stranger let out a little grunt but calmly tossed the butt over his shoulder, where some tired employee glared at him but headed off to get a broom and dust pan.  
  
"What was that for?" Mamimi asked.  
  
The Pirate man flexed his hand. "Chicks dig scars on a guy."  
  
". . . I'm buzzing for you, baby . . ."  
  
"What are you here for, Mamimi?"  
  
"My boyfriend. He came to America to play baseball."  
  
"And? Is that all?"  
  
She hesitated, not sure if it was ok to share her love life with a near total stranger. "I came to see him. Naoto told me he wrote about having a girlfriend. I don't know. He never wrote me."  
  
Was that a twinge of doubt that had crept into her voice?  
  
"And you're coming to win him back?"  
  
"He knows me. He can't have forgotten me."  
  
He shrugged. "Fame and big breasted blonde bimbos can wipe away memories. Leaving your country means leaving your life behind and your life is an accumulation of everything you know. Did he ever contact you? At all?"  
  
"No."  
  
Mamimi realized she had drunk all of her coffee. She became enthralled with the way there was some sticky wet sugar that clumped at the bottom of the cup.  
  
There had been no doubt in her mind. She didn't allow it. Now she had time to stop and only then did some dark thought creep into her mind. She tried to fight it back into oblivion, the place it had come from, but the harder she wrestled with it, the more it became lodged into her brain until it felt like it would burst from her forehead like the robots in Naoto's head.  
  
She quickly touched her forehead just to make sure.  
  
The singer quietly crooned into the microphone, like a man into the ear of his lover, "In the future, packages will be sent-"  
  
Mamimi closed her eyes and silently begged, Tasuku, please do not leave everything of your life behind. I'm still a memento.  
  
"- To distant worlds, on beams of light."  
  
Send me packages of clouds that you find in Heaven, she thought. Send me a halo, send me ambrosia from Mount Olympus. Send me you.  
  
The singer slowed down from his previously up-beat song and his guitar strumming felt more hypnotic. His voice seemed to echo Mamimi's sadness as he sang.  
  
The pirate man tapped her on the shoulder. "Are you done with your inner monologue?"  
  
She stared blankly.  
  
"Do you want to ever try?"  
  
"Try what?"  
  
". . . I was alive from the first . . ."  
  
The pirate man rolled his eyes. "Try to find him. You said he plays baseball, right? Just look up his name in some newspaper. Ask someone. He can't be that hard to find."  
  
". . . Now I'm denied by the ghost of you. . ."  
  
The pirate man grabbed her hand and jerked her out of the chair and ran to the door, trialing Mamimi behind him like a flapping flag in the wind or a flailing rag doll.  
  
"We have a mission to steal and sneak out way around the country to find your One True Love!" he babbled. "It's now a matter of true love or hearts breaking and I will not stand by when I have nothing better to do. Come, faithful mopey girl!"  
  
Mamimi was confused but she was ok with what was happening. It sounded like they were going to find her blessed baseball player and that's all that matter. How to do it was only a minor detail in her world.  
  
"Just take a photograph and." It was the last line she heard from the singer and it echoed within her ears and through her middle and inner ear all the way up to he brain where it echoed greatly within the confined of her skull and it drowned out those dark thoughts.  
  
It was a sign. Not quite a prophecy but it was something she could go by. She made sure her camera was secure around her neck and she patted her pants pockets to make sure she had some film and her pictures. This line was an arrow for her to chase after or a clue and she was going to make sure she was prepared for whatever it meant.  
  
The pirate man leapt onto his motorcycle, where a cop was trying to finish writing a ticket before he could start and take off. Too bad he never finished writing that ticket.  
  
They whipped down the street, right down the wrong lane. They laughed and whooped now that they were full of hope and purpose and ideas of their quest.  
  
The pirate man slowed down for a stop light. He looked over his shoulder and said, "By the way, my name is Atomosk."  
  
Back in the coffee shop, Mamimi never heard the rest of the line Howie Day hadn't finished. It which went, "Take yourself a photograph and laugh at me. And laugh at me." 


End file.
